Re-Appraisal

I’m disappointed gentle reader, disappointed to say the very least. I find myself floundering somewhat at the moment. Things just aren’t going my way right now.

Substack, as much as I love it, is pissing me right off. I see so many contributors on there with hundreds of followers and subscribers just for basically posting fluff and nonsense whilst I have the princely total of 22 subscribers. And I’m not blowing my own trumpet but I think I produce some pretty good copy that’s worth reading.

For example, I wrote a 3500-word humorous murder mystery short story over the weekend for my 22 subscribers, called Death by Bunting. It took hours to do and it’s a clever little thing too. Compare my humble effort with the average Substack post, which goes something along the lines of – Hi, I’m Samantha. I like Taylor Swift, Tik Tok and writing poetry although I haven’t posted any yet. If you like my page I’ll like yours too. Let’s all get to know each other.

Honestly, some of them are quite literally as vacuous and as lacking in substance as that and then you look at their stats and they’ve got something like 1.3k subscribers and the post itself has 538 likes.

If that sounds like I’m jealous you’d be completely wrong. I’m not jealous, I’m bloody furious!!! I’ve written almost 100 well-worded, and, at times lengthy, posts so far and the biggest audience I ever garnered was about 90 views for my first short story called Jessie.

Nobody wants to put any effort in any more, whether it be writing or reading. Everyone just wants instant gratification through having a vast multitude of friends and followers on every internet platform they use. It’s doing my head in, it really is.

And I keep getting emails by the dozen from other Substack authors offering to tell me how I can get more subscribers and then when I open the missive there’s just more fluff and little or no substance. I’m heartily sick of it.

So, I’ve decided that the only way for me to reach more subscribers and get people to read my stuff is to sit down one day and go through Substack’s tools and options with a fine-tooth comb and learn as much about it as I can. How hard can it be???

So that’s Substack.

Then there’s the whole novel writing thing…

Honestly, it’s a slog right now. It’s like pulling teeth trying to make a sale on any of my books and when I do make a sale it’s even harder trying to get a review out of people. And yes, I am acutely aware that I’m working in a crowded market place and people are very busy these days and don’t always have time or they have other things on their minds than to write me a review. I get that. But then I see other indies and they’re getting reviews left, right and centre.

AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!

And, I hasten to add, due to feeling extremely despondent about it I haven’t even attempted novel writing for about a year now. I made a good start on the next Ingleby book, featuring the adorable Archie and Aggie Stone, and then I just seemed to tail off. All I seem to do at the moment is Substack and this here blog.

Ergo…

…It’s time for a full re-appraisal of everything I’m doing. I don’t want to quit. I’m one of the “Winners never quit and quitters never win” brigade and have always had a good work ethic so there has to be another way. But I do know when I’m banging my head against a brick wall and it feels rather like that at the moment. Something has to change.

My head is absolutely buzzing with all sorts of exciting ideas right now, inspiration isn’t the problem, the problem is this – I’m a really good writer (I am) but I’m piss poor at marketing, promoting and selling my products. I’m far too reticent for one thing. Whenever anyone buys one of my books I feel I should just timidly give it away instead. And that’s not a great place to be.

I’m also getting a bit pissed with Amazon, through whom all my books are published. They take a huge (and I mean HUGE) mark up on your books leaving you with very little and they have pulled the rug out from under many a self-published author that I know by talking their books off sale without either warning or reason. I don’t trust them anymore.

And, might I just add, that the only way anyone is going to find Medicine Show on there is if they go directly to my Author Page as it doesn’t show up in the search results for Alan Stevenson. The other six are there on full public display but not my most recent one and that irks me like a splinter in the bum. I’ve never had a splinter in the bum to be perfectly honest but I have had plenty of them in other body parts (mainly hands) and so I can imagine how irksome one in the bum would be.

I am now seriously considering other outlets for my books.

And so, it truly is time for a big re-appraisal of everything that I do. I’m giving serious thought to a social media hiatus for a month or even longer to help me focus on things as my physical health is so bad that at times I spend far too long scrolling through rubbish instead of being productive. I think I’m going to get some decent voice recording technology downloaded to my phone so I can dictate to it on those occasions when I simply have to rest. I will keep putting up my Substack and blog posts on Facebook, Instagram and Threads but I need to step away from idly scrolling on them and damn well concentrate on infinitely more important things for a while.

To tell you the truth, I think I’m going to shelve the Ingleby novel I’d started and work on the next Joe Wilkie/Blessham one instead. I’ve got such a great plot and story for that one and am rather excited at the prospect of writing it. I believe it may well invigorate me as an artist somewhat, and that’s exactly what I need.

So watch this space. I’m not chucking the towel in; I’m just having a massive re-think.

Death By Teapot – The Answer

Ok, so a few months ago I wrote my first ever comedy murder mystery story and it was well received actually. I was chuffed with it at any rate. But what I didn’t reveal in the story was the identity of the culprit. I mentioned that the police arrested the wrong person but left it for you, the reader, to work out who really bludgeoned Mrs Baggley to death with a heavy earthenware teapot.

So here is the answer to the mystery…

If you recall, the bulk of the story took place at the PCC meeting in the church. There were five people at the meeting – the vicar, Mrs Baggley herself, Mrs Windebank, Mrs Wenlock and Mrs Dunwoody.

Well, barring the deceased (it wasn’t suicide: one does not commit suicide by bashing one’s own head in with a teapot) that leaves four people who all had a motive.

The Vicar – Mrs Baggley had threatened to report the vicar to the bishop over things that were said at the meeting.
Mrs Windebank had a motive after Mrs Baggley bluntly insulted her French ancestry.
Mrs Wenlock was accused by Mrs Baggley of being a sex maniac; not something that a PCC member would want bandied about.
Mrs Dunwoody’s mother was exposed as a drunk by Mrs Baggley. She was most upset about this.

There are other factors to consider as well.

Mrs Baggley was killed by a violent blow to the head from a heavy earthenware teapot. During the meeting Mrs Windebank had spoken of such a teapot as the ideal replacement for the current one and had passionately exclaimed that she would “buy the bloody thing myself.”
Mrs Dunwoody and Mrs Wenlock both expressed their dislike for Mrs Baggley. Mrs Wenlock said she would “swing for her myself” and Mrs Dunwoody went as far as saying she wished Mrs Baggley were dead.
The vicar had said he would reimburse Mrs Windebank himself for the teapot. Could it have been that he did so the night before the murder and taken the pot with him?

So what do you think? Have you worked out which of them committed this dastardly deed?

Which of the four was responsible for Mrs Baggley’s untimely demise?

…

Well actually none of them were.

…

If you recall there was a sixth person in the church at the time – Eric the organist.

Think back now:

Eric was a devoted follower of not just the church but the vicar also and was prepared to do anything for the good of both.
He’d recently had a new hearing aid, which whilst not helping his organ playing any, did mean that he overhead every part of the PCC conversation and Mrs Baggley’s threat to the vicar.
He also heard Mrs Windebank mention the earthenware teapot and her impassioned declaration of buying it.
When the vicar left the church, Eric was playing the hymn Nearer My God To Thee. A clear portent of what was about to befall Mrs Baggley who was soon to be a lot nearer to God.
Finally, Eric was known as a kind and gentle individual. Who would suspect him of doing it?

So there you have it.

Eric the organist finished his practice session in the church, he then went into town, purchased an earthenware teapot, hid in the bushes in the churchyard on Sunday morning and when Mrs Baggley went to unlock the church he crept up behind her and brained her with the pot thus speeding up her entry into the next world.

Did you get it right? Did the detective in you suss out that it was Eric? If not, who did you suspect and why?

…

I’m currently working on another comedy murder mystery short story where you will have another chance to play Sherlock Holmes or Miss Marple.

Watch this space.

The Power Of A Chat

The amazing and wonderful woman I am proud to share my life with (Ange) has been having some reflexology sessions as part of her recovery treatment from breast cancer. I must confess that I don’t know an awful lot about reflexology and may have perhaps dismissed it in the past as quack medicine. But minds can change and mine certainly has towards reflexology. If it helps the woman I adore then lets crack on with it.

The reflexology session lasts about an hour and so whilst Ange is in there I go to a place called the Sound Bar, which, if you’re interested, is situated right next to the bus station in Skipton. I like the Sound Bar although I do think it’s trying a little too hard to be cool. It really doesn’t need to.

It’s called the Sound Bar because…

It is a bar
It sells music in both vinyl and cd formats

Also, they have regular gigs and performances there and they play some pretty decent music while you’re having a drink or a vinyl/cd safari. Plus, the walls are decorated with all manner of Rock n Roll memorabilia. It’s kind of like stepping back in time to the early eighties so it is extremely retro in that respect.

Anyway, I like going in there and it’s a very rare occasion that I don’t come out of the place with at least one new record in my hand; often several.

And so, last Friday I found myself in there again.

There were only a few people in at that time and so I bought a pint of Guinness Zero and had a quaff before perusing said vinyl. There was a lady seated at the table next to mine, maybe in her early seventies, holding a Yorkshire terrier and drinking a latte. I smiled and said, “How d’you do?” to be polite and then I took a generous swallow of my non-alcoholic stout.

To cut a short story even shorter we began a conversation about music and we discovered our tastes ran along similar lines. We talked of bands we’d seen and whilst I name dropped Wishbone Ash and Uriah Heep, she countered with Hawkwind and Smile. For the uninitiated, Smile was Queen before they were Queen. Wow!

We talked of many other things; grandchildren being one, and I felt quite proud to tell her that Erin at 19 years old is rather fond of Fleetwood Mac. We also talked about dogs and pets in general. I had a Yorkie/Jack Russell cross many years ago (Suzy) and so we found another shared interest.

When I’d first sat down I noticed that there was a certain air of melancholy about her but as we talked her mood seemed to lift. I finished my pint and excused myself as I wanted to look at the records.

My vinyl safari lasted about fifteen minutes or so and I came away with a copy of Foxtrot by Genesis in excellent condition. Feeling rather chuffed I bought another Zero and sat down again. The lady was still there and was now drinking a glass of lager; it being after midday I suppose.

We got to chatting again and she asked me about my walking stick. I gave her a potted history of my health problems and then she told me something that really stopped me in my tracks.

She told me that very recently she had been diagnosed with dementia.

I didn’t quite know what to say at that juncture. Here was a total stranger telling me that basically life is about to get a lot worse for her but still saying it in a chatty and conversational way. Now I knew the reason for her melancholy countenance when I first arrived but the thing is that without us having that chat I wouldn’t have known about her condition as she was so talkative.

Now, I think I realise what was going on.

She was unburdening to me about her diagnosis. Having formed a sort of connection through a shared interest in music, grandkids and dogs she had felt able to tell me about dementia affecting her life. And the amazing thing was that even though she’d told me that she did seem a lot happier than when I’d first met her a mere half hour ago. Relieved almost.

We chatted a little more about Led Zeppelin and Genesis and then she said that she had to go and meet her daughter to whom the little dog belonged. I said something like, “See you later!” which is a bit phatic really. Unless she’s in the Sound Bar the next time I’m in there it’s highly unlikely.

I wish I’d told her that I hoped she would be all right or given her some words of comfort and encouragement instead of those three vacant words I had employed. I was cross with myself to be perfectly honest.

However…

Since then I’ve had a different opinion. It didn’t matter how we finished the conversation, what was more important was the fact that we’d had one in the first place and it had made an improvement to her day. And that, I suppose, is the moral of this story. We should never shy away from engaging with our fellow man or woman. A bit of a chat about music, dogs, art, literature, football, gardening, tea bags, bog snorkelling or whatever the hell else you have in common can make a massive difference to that person’s day.

I realised that our little chat had been a powerful thing and, even though I never even asked her name nor she mine, I like to think that I made a bit of a difference to her.

Ange arrived about ten minutes after the lady had left and had enjoyed her reflexology session immensely. I told her that this woman I’d never met before had confided her dementia diagnosis to me and part of me wished she had been there at the time as she is the most understanding and sensitive person you could ever hope to meet and would have been a much better sounding board for such things – I’m not a great conversationalist at the best of times.

But I’m going to try and do better in the future. I need to make more of an effort with people and take the time to chat with strangers. We all should. You just never know what it might achieve.

New Year, New Whatever…

Happy New Year one and all!

Can it really be a full year ago since the blog post – Good Intentions? It blooming well is you know. So here’s a quick review of the good intentions and what I achieved (and didn’t) in 2024.

Well, on a personal level I managed to lose the pitiful amount of 8 pounds in weight. Piss poor even if I do say so myself. At one point I’d actually lost over a whole stone but then Christmas came along and buggered all that up. So I’m more or less back to the beginning with that.

I have almost stuck to one of my goals that I set myself of going outside every day and getting some fresh air, rather than moping in the flat on bad days. And I came so close to achieving a full 366 days but for one when I was enjoying time with some visiting friends so much that I actually forgot to go out. I could kick myself for that one.

But in other ways I have been better. For instance, dry January ran into dry February, dry March and almost dry April. I broke my duck on April 28^th whilst out for a meal with the family and sank two pints of delicious, cold Guinness. And I’m trying it again this year. Going dry for a month I mean, not drinking two pints of Guinness, although I probably will drink a lot more than two pints of it before the year is out.

I’ve taken much better care of myself in many ways but my health has deteriorated with the arrival of cervical spondylosis, which is quite literally a pain in the neck. Fibromyalgia has run rampant like wildfire through my entire body and I had a cist the size of Bournemouth on my back at one point that required some pretty intense meds to shift.

So health wise it’s not been too great.

As for the old writing lark, well, that’s been an odd one. This is the first year that I haven’t published a book since 2019, when the wonderful Ah Boy! made its debut. Mind you, I did publish a weekly serialisation of a novel called Take a Hike that I wrote almost twenty years ago, which wasn’t very good to be honest, and doesn’t actually count as canon even though it does reference Ingleby but is set mainly in Whitby and therefore is something of an anomaly. It’s a bit like when Sean Connery made Never Say Never Again. Yes, it kind of was a Bond film with many of the usual elements in it but it just wasn’t officially part of the series. That’s how I look at Take a Hike.

This ‘ere blog has suffered a bit; I have to hold my hands up and admit to that. You see I got distracted by the glamorous lure of Substack. I envisaged that when I started posting in May of last year that I would be in three or four figures of subscribers by now.

That hasn’t been the case.

I’m still in the low double figures.

Then, on October the 18^th, my mum was hospitalised after a fall at home. The next two and half months saw Ange and I travel almost 3500 miles up and down the motorway to go and visit her every Friday to Monday. We slept on an air bed on my mum’s living room floor and I’ll leave you to guess how that has affected me physically.

And I’ll let you in to a little secret…

At one point I nearly quit!

I did. I nearly quit writing altogether. I just didn’t have the heart for it anymore. The horrible truth about being an independent author is that it’s frightfully hard to get people to take a chance on you. You see, if my name were David Walliams or Richard Osman or even Jamie Oliver (shudder) then publishers would be fighting each other to get a six-book contract into my sweaty little palms. But I’m not a celebrity, I’m a nobody, and nobody wants to read a nobody. If that makes sense?

But, I didn’t quit. Thanks to good advice from close family and true friends and the wonderful support of my amazing wife I feel a renewed determination at the start of this year. For one thing, Ange has retired now and I have to re-double my efforts at selling my books. Blessham Hall doesn’t get many tourists you see, and what with all the renovations to the front terrace and the owls nesting in the west wing, I really need to get myself paid for what I do.

Anyway, here’s the thing. I’m not setting myself any goals or resolutions for this year. I’m going to write when I write and not stress out on the days when I don’t. I’ve got plans for an anthology of my non-novel writing and I do hope to get the next Archie and Aggie Stone novel finished. It would be nice to start on the next Blessham book as well, which has a storyline I’m really excited about.

But if it don’t happen it won’t happen, and I need to keep a philosophical outlook.

I’d like to be sat here in 365 days’ time and tell you that I’m many stones lighter and several jeans sizes thinner but I’ll be happy with whatever I lose and if I can answer the front door without getting out of breath and breaking into a sweat by then, then I shall feel like a winner.

2025 – Bring It On!

The State of Play

I’m not really sure where to begin with this…

Apologies first I guess, for taking so long to do a blog post from the last one five weeks ago. I did have something pithy, witty and moderately scathing lined up for Halloween but I suppose that will have to wait until next year. But anyway, sincere apologies for taking so long.

Look, it’s been a bloody tough year here at Blessham Hall. One of the toughest in fact, and the last month or so have been extremely challenging. I’d love to report that the challenge has been getting the new novel featuring Archie and Aggie Stone finished but that would be an out and out lie. The challenge has been one on more personal terms.

On Friday 18^th October we received a phone call from my sister-in-law to say that my 92-year-old mother had fallen and broken her hip. Naturally this immediately caused a ton of worry and anxiety for us all and ever since then Ange and I have been travelling the 300-mile round trip to Leicester and back every Friday to Monday to see her and relieve the burden on the rest of the family.

In between I have managed to do a speaking engagement at the local library and a couple of Substack posts but that’s about it. The combination of motorway tailbacks, airbed sleeping, car parking in the middle of Leicester and hospital visits where my mum is talking on a constant loop due to dementia have been very telling on me both physically and mentally.

I’m exhausted.

I even drove home the other week with my TENS machine attached to my aching arms. That’s how bad it is. Trying to change gear around all those wires!

My wife, the lovely Ange, has been an absolute Trojan throughout all of this I have to say. She has supported me better than anyone else could ever have done. I’m so thankful for her.

Love you Ange xxx

But the truth of the matter is that because of all the aforementioned I’m in horrible pain all the time and permanently fatigued. And I mean badly fatigued as well. Not just a little bit tired and in need of a nap; no, I mean I’ve about as much energy in me as…

as…

I don’t even know how to finish that sentence, that’s how low on energy I am.

The other thing is that even despite the lack of energy and physical pain I just can’t seem to find time to write. It’s as if I can’t get any traction going with the laptop. I mentioned the next novel earlier and I have to be honest with you and say that’s it not going to be published this year. In fact, this will be the first year that I have gone without publishing a book since I began my independently-published journey in 2019 with Ah Boy.

And that actually makes me really sad when I think about it.

Of course, I am aware that prior to the current situation I have been labouring long and hard on my Substack output which has in turn made me neglect my first love of novel writing. It’s a lot easier to do a Substack post than it is to churn out an 85,000-word book.

But even Substack is beginning to suffer now and I find myself desperately trying to play catch-up every week. FFS!!! I can’t keep apologising! But that’s what I do.

And I do love writing. I can’t describe to you the immeasurable pleasure that I derive from it. I’m not saying I’m a great writer and I’m not even saying I’m a good one. What I’m saying is that I bloody well love doing it and I just can’t get any done at the moment.

If it sounds like I’m blaming my mum then that’s not the case. I don’t. It’s awful and heart-breaking seeing her the way she is. I’m just trying to convey the effect her accident and the rest of this stinker of a year has had on me; that’s all.

I wanted to put you all in the picture, especially in view of the fact that I’ve had quite an influx of new subscribers lately and I hate to disappoint people. My only excuse, if there is one, is that I do suffer horrendously from fibromyalgia and I do have other health issues as well. I’m just not as resilient as I used to be.

I mean, heck, when I was a younger man you should have seen me go. I was a live-wire of energy, always doing something, even after a hard day’s work. How I long for just a fraction of what I had back then energy wise. These days I’m more like an old worn-out leisure battery. Yes you can charge me up but I’ll run out of charge in no time at all.

Aah bloody hell, I don’t even know where I’m going with this now. It started out as a brief explanation of where I am and it’s turned into some kind of lecture on the physical history of Alan Stevenson.

Sorry folks.

The good news is that my mum has been moved to a lovely rehab hospital now close to where she lives and is getting a lot more visitors and so the pressure on the family is a lot less. So much so that Ange and I have this weekend off from travelling and the airbed. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s a good quality airbed and we’re extremely grateful for the loan of it from our neighbours – Josie and Glyn; its just not the same as one’s own mattress.

So the immediate future looks a bit better shall we say.

That’s all for now as I can feel the fatigue setting in again but I will try and post again next week. I need a bit of a lie down and then I’m going to try and get Substack back up and running and then tomorrow, hopefully, do a bit more towards the next novel.

Here’s hoping at least.

Love you all.

Al x

Ditties and Desserts

Well first of all, welcome to Blog Post Number 100. Yay!!! I’ve hit the ton. 100 not out etc.

Right, I’ve got that out of my system so on with this week’s entry.

We had the most delightful and fun evening at our local church last Friday. I know that a lot of people don’t associate church with fun and delight but believe me it was. And besides, some of you could do a lot worse than to get your ass to church of a Sunday, but I digress.

The delightful evening I refer to was an evening of poetry called Poems and Puds, which basically did what it said on the tin. It was a time of reading poetry and eating puddings. I ask you, what’s not to like about that?

There were no “professional” poets there, if there is such a thing, just a lot of enthusiasts who got together over apple pie and custard and raspberry pavlova (drool) to read either their favourite poems or ones they had written themselves. And there where quite a few self-written entries.

But I know what your mind is thinking. Did you read out a poem Stevenson?

Actually I did!

My wife (the adorable Ange) is quite the fan of poetry and likes to dabble herself. She attends a poetry group here in Settle and meets regularly with one of our neighbours (Liz) to write and discuss their own work.

So when this event was announced Ange was eager to go. The thing is that on the evening in question we were looking after our daughter’s Labrador (Noel) and so I reckoned I’d be stationed here at Blessham Hall to manage the beast.

That turned out to not be the case. I asked the vicar (Julie) if Noel could come along as well and she said that dogs were more than welcome in the church.

Win win! I was in.

The thing is, you see, that on the Thursday evening I wrote a poem. I had intended for Ange to read it on my behalf but thanks to the vicar’s progressive views on canines I had the opportunity to read it myself.

I’m not a natural poet, although I find it easy to rhyme things. The problem is that whenever I do write poetry it tends to be of the comical kind and turns out to be more Dr Seuss than Alfred Lord Tennyson. And this one was no exception.

I was inspired to write it by a sign on the toilet door at Victoria Hall. The sign said “Gentlemen” and something inside my head went ‘It’ll have to do!’ Not considering myself to be a gentleman.

And it stuck with me all afternoon until I began to put it into verse in my head.

We were paid a visit by our utterly smashing granddaughter (Erin) and went for a nice meal in the Golden Lion (can heartily recommend the fish and chips) and then gave her a lift home to Bingley. It was whilst on the journey that I actually took my phone out, open the notebook app and began to type my thoughts in. By the time we had got back home I had a fully formed poem on my hands. I hasten to add that Ange was driving.

Well, Friday evening soon arrived and after about an hour and a half it came to my turn to read.

Bloody hell, I was shaking like a wet gun dog as I mounted the small stage, praying that I could get a phone signal in the building. Thankfully I could and I opened my little poem and began to speak into the microphone.

I cracked a couple of jokes to break the ice (not that there really was any; good atmosphere actually) and then I cleared my throat and, with a trembling voice, read my hastily car-written opus.

And to my huge relief, when I’d finished I received a very warm round of applause and several nice compliments on it, including one from the vicar herself. Phew! I’d done it. I returned to my seat with a beaming smile on my face.

But what you’re all wondering now is – what was the poem like?

Well, as a special treat for you, here it is in all its glory. Ladies and Gentlemen, I proudly present to you…

Gentleman by Alan Stevenson (58 and a quarter)

The sign on the door said Gentlemen

But I was desperate, for the loo

You see I’m not a toff or squire

My blood is red, not blue

That sign it made me start to think

About my lack of airs and grace

I’m not a gent like a Lord or Earl

I’m firmly in my place

I never wear an expensive suit

Don’t own a black bow tie

And I don’t have a monocle

Gleaming in my eye

Don’t have a silk top hat

Or even a jaunty bowler

I drive a battered old Renault

I can’t afford a Roller

Not married to a Duchess

Not wed to a Queen

Well, she is one in my eyes

If you know what I mean?

Don’t live in a mansion

Don’t live in a manor

No posh education

I’m a bit of a spanner

No social climbing

And no fancy etiquette

And I’ve not got bags of money

Just great big bags of debt

I’m not well turned out

And not that well spoken

Don’t have a Rolex watch

My cheap Casio is broken

Don’t eat in high end restaurants

Never have tried caviar

I’d rather have lasagne

That I’ve ordered from the bar

Don’t have a smoking jacket

Don’t play no country sports

I think I would look daft in tweeds

I prefer T shirt and shorts

Don’t know how to play polo

Can’t even ride a horse

My language it ain’t dainty

In fact, it’s sometimes coarse

But, I actually quite like myself

D’you know what, I really do

I’m generous and I’m kind to others

And my words are honest and true

I like to help my neighbours

I’m a good and faithful friend

Love for my fellow man

Well of that I have no end

I’ll open the door for a lady

And chat to a perfect stranger

I’ll give to those who are in need

Help those who are in danger

I don’t judge folks by religion

Or the colour of their skin

If you need a shoulder to cry on

Then brother, I’m always in

I like to have a pint with pals

And spin a good yarn or two

I’m a friend to everyone

Not just the chosen few

I do my best to be my best

A diamond in the rough

My family they all love me

And that’s more than enough

So when my time is over

That day I know not when

I hope people will say I was

One of nature’s gentlemen

The End

So what do you reckon to that then? Not bad for saying I wrote it on my phone in a moving vehicle in the space of an hour or so. I don’t know about you but I’m rather quite chuffed with it and, despite the jitters on the night, I did enjoy reading it.

Where could this lead to? Who knows? I don’t get the poetic muse very often so don’t expect an anthology any time soon. I’m more about prose than poetry. But from time to time I will pop up with the occasional ditty and I hope you will enjoy them.

Inflammation Explanation

I have gotten a little behind with everything this week and I have a truly valid reason. I’ve been as sick as a pike. And not just with the usual stuff, although that has been horrendous too, but I’ve been smitten with a foul and purulent entity on my body that caused me to miss out my Substack posts on Monday and Wednesday.

So look, rather than having to explain everything all over again, how about I just put the Substack post I wrote yesterday, detailing it all, on here for you to read.

Yes, I know it’s a cop out but if you will just have a glance at this then I think you will permit me this one extravagance. Seriously, it’s been that bad.

Anyway, without further ado, check this out…

From Substack: 27^th June 2024

I was struggling for a title for this post. My initial thoughts were “Abscess Makes the Heart Grow Fonder” or perhaps “Come To the Boil” or even “Cyst-ematic!” At one stage I even contemplated “Simon and Carbuncle!” In the end I’ve gone for What’s New Pus-sy Cat? And that’s because I’m currently having a bit of an issue with pus.

I know, I know, gross isn’t it? But it’s a fact of life that from time to time most of us will need a bit of lancing at some point in our lives. And right now, I’ve had a go at it.

I have an abscess on my back the size of the Isle of Wight and it’s making me feel extremely poorly. That’s the reason why I failed to post on Monday and Wednesday; I was feeling just too damned ill.

Like all idiots I tried to lance the seething, glistening, pulsating thing myself and did manage to get some gunk out of it. My beautiful better half also attempted in a less aggressive fashion and got some more out of it using a combination of tea tree oil and hot water. But with every attempt we just seemed to make the thing angrier and angrier and now it’s reached the stage where it resembles a 1:1 scale model of Ayres Rock and I had to seek urgent medical attention.

I didn’t know that our local surgery had an Advanced Practice Nurse but I made an appointment to see her on Monday morning. She was very good and I could see the pity in her eyes as she tended to this poor, old, pus-filled man who had crept into her consulting room like a grotesque and hellish vision of corruption and diseased flesh. I was hoping that perhaps she might have a crack at lancing it herself but no, it had gone way beyond that; the situation called for medication. Strong, powerful medication. Arse-kicking medication.

So I’m now on Flux… floxi… flummox…

…antibiotics.

And they’re having a positive effect already after only 48 hours. I’m much more comfortable to the point where I feel well enough to write and catch up with my Substack and other things. Mind you, I don’t want to get one stuck in my throat; they’re like trying to swallow rugby balls.

I’ve no idea how this thing first came to be either. It just appeared one day and has grown like a well-manured marrow ever since. At first I thought that it might be a bad insect bite as I am terribly prone to having mozzies and horseflies sink their filthy little teeth into me every Summer. But that’s another story. And how does one get an abscess in the first place? I do not know.

Anyway, I’m on the mend now and hopefully can get back to some sort of normality.

Oh! I’ve just thought of another title – Sir Lanced-a-lot! Which, in hindsight, might have been better.

(sigh…)

So there you go. It’s all been rather unpleasant here at Blessham Hall this week, be assured of that. The good news is that the abscess has reduced greatly in size to where it’s more molehill than mountain and I’ve not had any adverse reactions to the medication.

Phew!

I’ll be back with a proper blog post next week.

Thank you for your patience.

In the meantime you can read and subscribe (for free) to my Substack HERE

Tunnel Vision

I’ve done it again, haven’t I? I’ve gone an absolute eon since the last blog post, which, if I remember correctly, was all to do with alpacas and cuteness. Nearly a month ago! I suppose I could throw myself on your mercy and say I’ve got no excuses and that I’m a horrible toad of a person who doesn’t deserve to have his blog read and that you should cross the road to avoid me; but actually, I do have an excuse.

I’ve been suffering from tunnel vision.

Not the actual physical condition where one’s eyesight is badly impaired by glaucoma, which sounds absolutely awful and my heart goes out to anyone with it; but more the metaphorical condition where one is totally focused on just one thing that everything else fades into the background.

Why do I keep saying “one?” It’s not like I’m royalty or anything.

Anyway, that’s the state of play and I have definitely been so focussed on one particular thing that it would seem that I have lost sight of all my other outlets. I refer, of course, to Substack.

Now I will be completely honest right from the off that I have become somewhat addicted to it. And I don’t see that as necessarily a bad thing, it’s just that it has been a huge distraction from all else.

I really do like Substack you see. I like the whole ethos of independent writers getting paid for their work as opposed to giving it away for free, which is sadly so often the case. I personally give away more books than I sell, although at this stage of the game I look upon that as a marketing strategy, but it doesn’t alter the fact that we all like to be paid for the effort we put in and that’s what Substack is all about. Well, not all, there is the obvious benefit of simply being recognised as an author, which is worth its weight in saffron (Google it).

So yes, I admit, that all my energy (what little I have) has been poured into Substack of late but you can’t say I didn’t warn you; there was a blog post about it. As it stands I’m up to three Substack posts a week. Which usually appear on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. So far at least. And the wonderful thing about it is that despite me not being paid a penny from it thus far I am being read quite widely. And to me that is a beautiful thing. Just to know that what I’ve taken the trouble to write is being seen by people who are taking the trouble to read. And that is what is so addictive about it.

Actually being read!

But, like all addicts, I do realise that I have a problem and that problem is the neglect of all the other irons I have in the literary fire.

However, there is good news as far as The Pheasants Revolt is concerned!!! I’ve finally finished re-working the blessed, wonderful, magnificent thing and I now consider it fully fit for purpose in the same way that Ah Boy! and Medicine Show are. It’s cleaned up, de-typoed and a much better read all round. Plus it has a sexy new back cover. So you see, I can break from Substack when I need to.

Also, I’ve begun work on Hot Eire in the same vein.

“Ah!” You may cry, “what about that new Archie and Aggie novel you promised us? Where’s that you lying little hound?”

Hold your horses a minute, it’s coming; for I have indeed found time to work on that as well.

And if you so desperately want a new novel from yours truly then you can begin reading one right away. For every Friday on Substack I publish a new chapter of a book I wrote in 2006, called ‘Take a Hike.’ That’s not the original title. The original title makes me shudder with embarrassment and it shall not be uttered here or anywhere else for that matter.

Being almost twenty years old does mean that its a bit raw and perhaps even a tad naïve in places but in it you can definitely hear the fledgling start to my career as an author as I try to find my voice. And actually, it is quite a compelling story as well.

It’s there for anyone to read for free!

And so can you.

Click Here to be transported to Chapter 1.

or…

Click Here to go to my Substack Home page.

I mean look, lets be honest, at least I haven’t been idle, have I? And the thing about being a writer in the 21^st century is that you have to be flexible and fluid in your approach and be prepared to adapt to different outlets. That’s the absolute truth and it’s what I’ve been doing.

So to answer any burning questions you may have, here are the answers:

Yes, there will still be a new Archie and Aggie novel this year
Yes, I will do a damn sight better with the blog i.e. frequency
Yes, Hot Eire will be re-jigged/improved upon a.s.a.p
Yes, Substack will continue 3 days a week
Yes, I will give up all beers, wines and spirits

Just for fun, see if you can guess which one of those bullet points is false.

I do fondly and sincerely hope you will hop over to Substack and have a read of the output that’s on there so far. It’s all good clean laugh out loud fun apart from a rather sad and serious short story I wrote about a small dog, which is a bit of a tearjerker and a massive side-step from my usual scribblings.

If you’d care to subscribe to my Substack, you can still do so for free as it’s going to be some time before I start charging people (if ever) but you’ve got to start somewhere haven’t you? Also, please do leave a comment or a ‘Like’ as it’s the little things like that that keep us indies believing.

Have a gorgeous weekend everyone, enjoy the football, if that’s your thing, I hope the Sun shines wherever you are in the world and I will see you back here at Blessham Hall very, very soon.

I promise x